“No it has to be one of those other colors,” Denisce decides, which was in her name after all. A decision maker she was, a go getter. And blue wasn’t in her
name aim. George neither.
“Aw, *rats*,” he says, and starts moving toward his clothes.
“Blue,” George begins, floating like a ball in his Southwestern pool as Little George, thinking of Michigan and some other stuff. “And yellow — *that’s* what did my beloved Duncan in, Marty.” George looked over at the red topped Beetle, checking to see if he was actually listening. Because he often wasn’t. He was currently looking at his soaked shoes and wondering how to slip them off and make his feet bare, like young George’s tootsies over there. He was wondering how he could Be Like George.
“Are you hearing me, Marty?”
“Um, sure sure. Blue, right.”
“And…?” George prompts.
“Um… *yellow*, yeah yeah. Real reet.”
George actually shakes his head with this while floating in the water. George thinks that Marty isn’t black. He should stop trying so hard. The Mann, pheh. “So that leaves…?” he prompts again.
“Red and green.” Marty was starting to pick it up. The Annaberg balloon; Blue and Yellow seeing a yellow sunrise with his two blue peepers. Duncan didn’t look the other way this time. This was all about TILE.
“You disappeared into that rock over there, you rocker. Do you even recall *that*?”
He recalled… something about a Cyclone. Blue and yellow. Then red and green. Oz.